Time for the Dead, Time for the Living
by Hekate1308
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is one of the ghosts DI Greg Lestrade carries around with him. He's fine with that, because it means the consulting detective will never truly leave. Then Sherlock returns. Sherlock and Lestrade reunion, Post-Reichenbach.


**Author's note: My mind is… not even I know how it works, exactly, but once I start thinking about a plot (and, believe me, that happens often enough) I have to write it. **

**So... where was I? Right, story... Anyway, I've read a lot of John/Sherlock reunion fics, and they're great/epic/sad/happy/all of the above, and now and then, Lestrade would be mentioned or he would show up at the end. So my mind came to think of a Sherlock/Lestrade reunion... and the rest, as they say, is history.**

**I don't own anything and please review.**

It's a cold, dark, stormy night, perfect for the appearance of ghosts, if you choose to look at it that way.

Of course, DI Greg Lestrade doesn't believe in ghosts.

He doesn't need to believe. He knows they exist.

They don't appear at midnight, rattling chains and howling. In fact, they don't appear at all.

They are always there, in the back of his mind, and he suspects in the back of other people's minds too.

And everyone has different ghosts, which is logical, after all, because they aren't with you when you are born, you slowly acquire them in the course of a life, and no matter what you do, you can't make them go away.

Greg has decided that's a good thing, because he doesn't want them to leave. He likes his ghosts, every single one of them reminds him of something important.

There are his parents, naturally, their love and affection, their belief in him, which has helped him through long hard cases, when he'd all but given up.

There's his cousin, who died in a car accident when she was barely twenty. She was the closest thing he'd ever had to a sister, and he cherishes the memories he has of her.

There's the first murder victim he's ever set eyes on, a man around fifty, who keeps telling him why he does what he does.

There's the little girl he couldn't save, back when he was still a DC; he remembers her agonized screams as the burning building a paedophile had trapped her in collapsed, Greg unable to do anything because going in would mean his death, too. She's always been a reminder to try just a little bit harder, look a little more closely.

There are a lot of other ghosts, of course, and their number continues to grow. But, looking at them right now, on this night, in this moment, Greg realizes there's always one who seems more important than the others.

He joined their ranks three years ago. He joined them unexpectedly. He wears a long black coat. And he has the annoying habit of correcting every single one of Greg's other ghosts.

Turns out, Sherlock Holmes can even be a nuisance when he's been dead for years.

Though Greg can't say that surprises him.

How well he remembers everything that happened three years ago. How Donavan and Anderson (he still doesn't like talking or working with them, but he doesn't have much choice) sowed doubt into his mind (and, now he still hasn't forgiven himself that he ever doubted Sherlock, he won't ever forgive himself, even though John has never blamed it). How the Chief Superintendent ordered him to arrest Sherlock, and how he'd called John and desperately hoped that the consulting detective would be gone by the time they arrived. But, of course, Sherlock had to be dramatic, like always, and stage a "daring escape" (as John later told him, that's how he called it).  
There's this hidden, tiny part of Greg's mind that wishes that Sherlock staged this escape partly for him – to show that he didn't have a hand in it. He usually ignores this part. It's maybe the craziest thought he's ever had.

How he'd – well, not exactly how he'd looked and searched for Sherlock all over London, more how he'd tried to hinder the search in a way that nobody would notice.

How he'd got the call.

How he'd gone to the morgue and looked at Sherlock's corpse, while Molly had been silently crying somewhere in the back, and it had taken everything in him not to start sobbing himself. Because the world had lost a great man, and it would most likely never know.

And how he'd only then realised how much he would miss the arrogant sod. His dramatic entrances. His coat tricks. His maniacal grin whenever he had fun at a crime scene. Even his inability to remember Greg's first name – he guesses he never was important enough to Sherlock to occupy a large enough room in his mind palace.

Over the course of the years he'd known Sherlock Holmes, he'd thought of him as many things – a junkie. A recovering drug-addict. A consulting detective. A very annoying man. A brilliant man. A great man. Maybe, sometimes, a good man.

But until he looked down at his remains, he hadn't realized that somewhere along the line, he's started thinking of Sherlock Holmes as a friend. Even though he'd probably never been more to Sherlock than someone to give him a case file when he was at his wit's end.

So it was that he accepted Sherlock's appearance in his little army of ghosts without a fight; he wants to remember him.

Because Sherlock Holmes deserves to be remembered.

Because any doubt Greg may have felt concerning Sherlock – it has long since evaporated into thin air. He knew too much to have researched it all.

He'd been a junkie – and an arrested one at that – when he'd told Greg his whole life story at their first meeting, right down to the death of his cousin (though he'd said sister, but "There's always something.").

Over the years, he helped in too many cases, solved to many of them, to be a fraud. And Greg has spent the last three years grinning to himself every time the consulting detective was proven right about a case after a re-investigation of said case. He only wishes the prize for proving Sherlock right hadn't been so high.

Plus, he doesn't think a brother of Mycroft Holmes could turn out any differently than Sherlock did.

His "business relations" (yes, that's what the almighty British Government called it once) with the older brother of his friend have cooled down somewhat, and not only because there's no need to look after Sherlock anymore. In fact, up to two years ago, Mycroft still had him kidnapped occasionally to find out how John was doing – typical, he couldn't just call him.

Greg is thankful that John and Mrs. Hudson have kept in touch; he meets John for drinks or dinner, and has tea with Sherlock's house– landlady now and then, who seems to be quite lonely in the house, now, without her "boys". And, as before mentioned, until a year after Sherlock's death, Mycroft kept in touch too, in his way.

The reason that doesn't happen anymore is that John told him, one night at a pub, when they'd both been quite drunk, that Mycroft had been the one to tell Moriarty all about Sherlock and to let him go.

And to think that Greg had actually been thankful to Mycroft, because he's quite sure the older Holmes is the only reason he still has his job.

When Mycroft had him picked up the next day, he'd seen red. How dare this – posh – person (creative swearing has never been of Greg's strengths) stand there with his umbrella in his perfect suit when he'd – he'd–

Thank God he'd remembered not to punch him in the face – never leave traces – and opted for Mycroft's stomach instead. Luckily, the first thing the older man did, while still kneeling and breathing hard, was to tell his bodyguards to let go of Greg. The second thing was to stand up, check his suit to make sure there'd be no lasting damage, and say politely "Good-bye" to Greg.

When he remembers this, he almost regrets he didn't punch him harder.

He looks out the window after his trip down memory Lane and realizes it wasn't about three years ago, but exactly three years ago that Sherlock jumped. In moments like this, he's thankful for his ghosts, he muses as he sits down on the sofa. They keep him company – he and his wife split up soon after the Christmas party where Sherlock had told him about her affair – and make sure he doesn't forget the important things in life.

Though, now and then, oh, who's he kidding, all the time, he still wishes Sherlock wasn't one of them. He's sure the consulting detective would enjoy the case he's working on right now: A young man – Ronald Adair – was shot through a window on the third floor by a sniper. Sherlock would know who committed the murder by now, he's sure of it.

Greg must have drifted off to sleep still thinking about the case and Sherlock, because he's suddenly woken by a noise coming from the front door. Luckily, he always keeps his gun nearby – he only wishes he'd have bothered to turn on the lights before starting to philosophize about ghosts and falling asleep in the process.

However, he doesn't have much time to regret not turning the lights on, because he can hear someone walking – funny, he'd almost call it "striding" because of the way it sounds – towards the living room.

He aims his gun at the door. "Wrong door, buddy. Police. Stop and stay right where you are."

What happens next almost makes him faint.

The intruder – a tall, thin man, he can see his silhouette in the door, at least – starts talking.

"Really, Inspector, I can't say your manners have improved since I last saw you. Since when does one point a gun at old friends who just happen to drop in for a quick chat?"

That voice. Good Lord, that voice. He'd know it everywhere; he has heard it rambling on for hours, complaining, even chuckling now and then.

Either he is mad...

Or Sherlock Holmes is standing in his living-room.

He's at the light switch in seconds. The light flares up, and there he is.

Thinner (and Greg hadn't thought that possible), paler, a certain haunted look in his eyes. But alive.

Alive, breathing, standing in Greg's flat. The man he buried three years ago, the man he's been mourning ever since.

There's so much he wants to ask, so much he wants to say. What comes out is "Sherlock, you look like hell. Sit down."

He actually laughs at that, this annoying, awful, wonderfully alive man. "Well, Inspector, you haven't forgotten all your manners, I see."

He takes if his coat – a different one that Lestrade saw in the morgue – but, of course, that wasn't Sherlock – and Greg realizes the consulting Detective is actually wearing a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. And he thought seeing Sherlock alive would be the greatest miracle he'd ever behold.

Sherlock holds his eyes. "Would you please close your mouth, sit down, and start asking? I see you've got questions."

He does what he's told (like he always did when Sherlock ordered him to do something). "How?"

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. "Too complicated to explain right now."

"Well, that certainly helps. Thanks a lot." But Greg finds he's smiling, and he can't be angry right now. He knows he will be, once he's processed Sherlock's alive, but right now – if he were a religious man, he's probably be on his knees, thanking God. "Then tell me something else: Why?"

"Moriarty – it was the only way to stop him killing my friends."

Oh. Oh, of course. Sherlock's one weakness. An army doctor. "John."

"Yes, inspector. And not just John – " Sherlock's looks away from Greg and stares at his wall – "everyone."

He didn't know Sherlock had more than one friend, but maybe the list includes Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. And quite possibly Molly.

"Good, then. And Moriarty..."

"Dead." Still interrupting people, then. Some things will never change. "He shot himself in front of me. I was informed today at the Diogenes Club that Mycroft's people found his body and took it away before the police arrived. Apparently, Mycroft understood that an investigation would only bring to light that the dead man was, in fact, Richard Brook, and he wanted to protect my memory or something like that." He shrugs his shoulders again. It's good to know there are things that Sherlock Holmes will never understand.

"So Mycroft knew – ". "Since this morning. Before then, nobody knew. You are the third."

"Ah, so you spoke to John." Greg is honoured, in a way; being told right after Mycroft and John that –

"No. Mrs. Hudson."

"Good God, Sherlock, the poor man's suffered enough in the last three years!"

Sherlock is silent for a moment. Then, he says quietly, which a Sherlock three years ago would never have done, "And you don't think I have suffered too?" before once again turning into his old self. "He has a shift at the clinic. I will go to his flat tomorrow."

"Good, that's... good." The Greg realizes that there must be a reason Sherlock's here; Sherlock's only ever come to him when he needed something. "So, what do you need?"

"I think you need something – my help. Three undetected murders in a year won't do, Lestrade. But we'll talk about that later. Ronald Adair."

Now Greg is confused. "What about him?" "The man you are looking for is called Colonel Sebastian Moran. He was the right-hand man of the deceased James Moriarty, and is now the most dangerous man in London. He is also the last piece of Moriarty's web I have to destroy before I can return."

Greg realizes something. "So, what you did in the last three years" "I destroyed Moriarty's web, as before mentioned." Greg chooses to ignore the implications of that for now. That's a subject for another day.

"You have my help." Sherlock looks at him, looks really at him for the first time since he entered his flat, and Greg sees an unfamiliar look in those eyes. "I know. I always had that."

Greg is so stunned at that (and, he wouldn't admit, but he's relieved at Sherlock's words – they mean the consulting detective never blamed him) that he allows the silence to continue for a few minutes.

Sherlock clears his throat. "Well, I better be off. I can't stay here, Moran's gang is watching me. I'll contact you tomorrow. Oh, and please, don't tell anyone I've returned yet."

"And spoil your fun? No, of course not. If you're really lucky, you might give someone a heart attack." They both chuckle a bit at that. "Where are you staying?" "The Diogenes club – for now."

Sherlock puts his coat back on and turns to go. Then he stops and turns to look at Greg once more. "Mycroft told me you and him had... a falling-out of sorts."

"If you mean punching him because he told Moriarty everything he wanted to know about you... well, than yes."

Sherlock grins. "I'm sorry I missed that." "Yes, it was quite a sight."

Sherlock continues to stare at him, and Greg grows uncomfortable. "Something else you need my help with?"

"No, it's just– " Sherlock apparently can't find the right words and looks down, and that scares Greg more than he'd like to admit, but he gives him time. Soon enough, Sherlock's gaze returns to Greg's eyes and he starts talking.

"Moriarty's threat – my friends – they were–" He stops again, but only for a moment this time.

"John. Mrs. Hudson. And... you."

Oh. _Oh_. So Sherlock sees him as a friend. One he would die for. _Did_ die for, in a way.

Greg has never felt this proud in his entire life, not even when he graduated from the academy.

Sherlock clears his throat once again and turns towards the door. "Well, see you tomorrow."

However, this time, for once, Greg is quicker than Sherlock Holmes. "Sherlock!" he calls while rushing forwards, and the moment Sherlock turns, he feels himself enveloped in a bone-crushing hug.

"You know" Greg says, his voice muffled by Sherlock's coat "your manners didn't improve either, if you're still not aware you're supposed to hug people back".

Sherlock doesn't say anything. Instead, he does as he's told, and hugs Greg back. They stay like this for a few moments, then Greg steps away and rubs his eyes so the tears won't fall. He's a DI, he's not going to embarrass himself in front of his – his _friend_. And a few tears spill out anyway, at this thought. He smiles.

"See you tomorrow, then." Sherlock, speechless, something Greg never thought he'd see, just nods.

He walks to the door. When he's almost reached it, Greg says quietly "Good to see you, Sherlock."

At first he doesn't think the consulting detective has heard him, but right before the door closes, he hears Sherlock's answer.

"You too, Greg."

And then he's alone, and one of the ghosts has left him, but that's fine, great, wonderful, because it means Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Greg realizes the storm has ceased. This is no time for ghosts anymore.

It's a time for the living.

**Author's note: Like I said, I had to write it. Greg deserved his reunion story too. We have to spread the love for DI Lestrade – he's nice, he's polite, he's charming, he's intelligent, he's played by Rupert Graves. What more do you want?**

**I hope you enjoyed this story.**


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